Life as a dog

While criticising the NHS is an almost permanent temptation, anyone who thinks we’d be better off without it would do well to imagine life in Britain as a sick dog.

Since the start of this week, one of our dogs (we have two, haven’t mentioned it previously on here) has had something wrong with his right hand side. He keeps going over on his front wrist/ankle joint and can’t correct himself. His back right leg is wobbly too. It’s pretty upsetting to watch, but apart from the falling over, he seems broadly fine.

Elvira took him to the vet a couple of days ago, and the vet was baffled and referred him to a neurologist for an MRI scan. The nearest dog neurologist and MRI scanner, it turns out, are in Chester.

So, there being no ambulances to transport poorly animals around, I have taken a day off work to drive him the 80-odd miles over here.  

I shan’t bore you with the details, but he is having a series of diagnostic tests to figure out what the hell is wrong with him. And the estimate I’ve been given for the cost of that – which has to be settled before I leave – is just under £2,000.

That’s just to find out what’s wrong, not to give any sort of treatment.

Now, the hospital is very nice, and all the staff are very nice – but I suspect that if I had not had pet insurance, they might not have been quite so nice to me. And given that the maximum cover of the dog’s policy is £2,500, we could very well end up later today in a situation where life-saving treatment awaits awkward financial decisions. 

Now I know vets tend to give the impression of being all cuddly and Rolf Harris-like when they are in fact as financially rapacious as Fred Goodwin. But just imagine if it was your kid and not your dog getting that bill. It’s almost enough to make you think that there are some good things about this country after all.